Malpractice Makes Imperfect

10.09.14 (Day 262)


Birds of a feather flock together. Some girls – of all ages, near to and far from my own – flock to me for some reason; blokes too: I’ve never understood why but apparently it’s because I’m me.

I have experience; I’ve had lots of practice. I’m far from perfect.

Part of the attraction is apparently safety: they feel secure with me. I’ve found it hard to understand why some of the ladies I’ve had relationships with found me attractive but apparently I am. I’m also modest.

I’m sage; I give advice. Kids come to me because they trust me and I pose no threat. I’ve worked with kids in schools; been CRB checked. I have a criminal record but nothing which has prevented me from doing what I love, which has been working with young people, imparting knowledge in a way that no-one else apparently can (because I treat them as equals) and being their friend.

The kids get close to me because they want to and because I let them. That’s when the thought police out there start to make their false assumptions. Sometimes those assumptions are made by the kind of people who consider breast-feeding to be somehow sexual. There is physical contact (gasp!) but not inappropriate. The problem is in their heads. It’s conditioning.

I have letters of support from parents and carers; I have letters of thanks from some of the kids. I have letters after my name. Unfortunately, some of these people can’t read; nor think before they speak or act; the same qualities exhibited by their colleagues in the plastic police and defective detectives. How many fucking times to have to say this? Many more, I’m sure. The problem with talking to people with no brains is that whatever you say to them actually does go in one ear and out of the other, because there’s nothing in between.

Sometimes I help these people grow up, if they’ll let me. Some do; others regress.

There are a few particularly defective detectives out there in the thought police, doing a very good job of being stupid and generally shit. They have it in their small brains that I am conducting an inappropriate relationship with one of the young people closest to me. Yes, we’re in a relationship: we’re very close friends. On that basis, I’m in lots of relationships. The difference with this one and the reason she’s referred to as The Wife is because she might as well be: I don’t get on with the in-laws and we argue a lot, with other people. We’re soul mates; we have a lot in common (intelligence, anger management issues, humor…) and we understand one another like few others can. She happens to be very pretty and if I were a certain way inclined, I’d say she’s well put together. Neither of us want to be in a relationship with anyone else but we have one another and we’re happy when we’re together. Who knows what the future might hold for the pair of us?

The only grooming I’m ever likely to do is grooming a horse or maybe being a bride groom one day. In the interim, sometimes what I’m trying to do is curtailed, to the detriment of those I’m trying to help. I won’t stop. Those who know, know it’s right. Those who think otherwise are wrong.

And whilst I’m in the spotlight of the plastic police, I don’t do drugs. I have in the past. I’ve done a lot of things: experience and malpractice to make me what I am today: imperfect, damaged goods. The real police have a record on me: mainly petty theft, violence and one incident of carrying a blade. We all have baggage; I advocate leaving it at the door. If only others would.

So worriers, stop worrying; stop worrying us and get on with your sad, empty boring lives while those of us with more to do lead our fulfilling ones. Mine isn’t much but I have what I need.



A better night’s sleep over the last three nights, mainly drug-induced (Zopiclone, from my dealer).

Whereas previously I was getting an average of three hours sleep per night, over the last three nights, that’s increased to almost six (party on!) The six hours have tended to be made up of five hours solid sleep, including REM (I know, because I’ve been having trip-out dreams), then an hour or so of dozing. I’m waking up with morning glory again (should I put this is in?) I’m due to speak to a doctor today and hopefully be prescribed sleeping tablets of my own.

My phone, which I used in lieu of a tablet, is sleeping: it’s dead. Little Blue couldn’t swim. They were kind enough to send me autopsy photos and I can confirm that he succumbed. Little Blue took so much with him: so much we used to do together. He ran my life and was everything I needed in one place. Now everything is spread over different devices and not joined up. I will replace my little friend eventually, once money is sorted. By then though, Little Blue’s type will probably be long gone and I’ll have to settle for a newer model (#firstworldproblem). I just loved my Little Blue. There may be an upstart usurper but my little friend was mine and totally unique in what he carried around for me (thank fuck some of those photos went with him). The passing of Little Blue makes me a little blue.

Not as much as I miss my little Milky Bar though: the one who understands me; the one who can calm me down when I’m angry. And I am angry and frustrated. I’m angry at yet more obstacles placed in my way and preventing me from moving on. It’s all been documented here. I really can’t be bothered to explain the details over and over again. Read back and try not to fall asleep. Or just try it. Try being in my situation and doing your best to change things.  While you’re at it, jump over a few barbed wire hurdles, jump through some flaming hoops and smash your head against a wall repeatedly. I have plenty of practice and it’s just damaged me further; made me more imperfect. I wish I could sleep.

As you read, are you witnessing self-destruction? Some of the plastic police think so. No. You’re seeing the wearing down of someone who just wants to do right. Someone who tried; someone who’s still trying. The pulling apart of someone by a system that gave up on someone who won’t. As with so much else, I’ll keep going. I’ll keep fighting.

As could be confirmed by several people in authority at several organisations, I have done everything I can to try to “sort myself out”. Many balls are in lots of courts and I await a return service. It’s not me that needs sorting: it’s the system that has been driving me down, round the bend and around in circles for the last nine months.

With boxes ticked and little else which I’m able to do, I continue to pay my way to some extent in kind, by cooking for the people I stay with. Last night’s dinner was one of my signature dishes: pasta with roasted mushrooms and peppers with a home-made cheese sauce and served with home-made garlic and herb toast. Simple in concept and principle but complicated and time-consuming when cooked by me, striving for perfection with just the ingredients which are available and need using up. Resourceful, imaginative and well-seasoned: that’s me and my cooking; missed by most when I move on to the next place, where someone else will wear the trousers and I’ll don the apron. I just love to work with food and people. The credit for last night’s offering went to the soux chef.

Tonight I have tortilla wraps which need using as a basis, so I’ll literally use them as a base; for a pizza; Calzone in fact. We have meat balls and other things which need using, so I’ll do something different: pizza, using tortillas as a base. You didn’t see that one coming.

It’s not one I’ve tried before but there’s a first time for everything and I’ll try anything once: there’s quite a few things which I have. If I like what I try, I do it again. Practice makes perfect.

It’s all about numbers.

According to Wikipedia, it is unknown whether there are any odd perfect numbers. Well I have one, the relevance of which is known only to me and one other: 873.


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